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ST. F^ND
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THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
THE FEAST
OF ST FRIEND
A CHRISTMAS BOOK
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
Author of 'The Old Wives' Tale"
"Buried Ali've" Etc.. Etc.
Keiw VotK^
GEORGE H.DORAN
COMPANY
Cry^
7K ^^^^
tic Ph-
Copyright, 1911,
By George H. Doran Company
SCI.A2U7843 ^
i
CONTENTS:
Chap. Page
I. The Fact 1
II. The Reason 13
III. The Solstice and Good-
will 25
IV. The Appositeness of
Christmas 37
V. Defence of Feasting 49
VI. To Revitalize the Fes-
tival 61
VII. The Gift of Oneself 73
VIII. The Feast of St. Feiend 85
IX. The Reaction 97
X. On the Last Day of the
Yeae 109
CHAPTER
ONE
THE FACT
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
ONE
THE FACT
SOMETHING has happened to
Christmas, or to our hearts ; or to
both. In order to be convinced of this
it is only necessary to compare the
present with the past. In the old days
of not so long ago the festival began to
excite us in November. For weeks the
house rustled with charming and thrill-
ing secrets, and with the furtive noises
of paper parcels being wrapped and
unwrapped; the house was a whisper-
ing gallery. The tension of expect-
ancy increased to such a point that
there was a positive danger of the cord
snapping before it ought to snap. On
[1]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
the Eve we went to bed with no hope of
settled sleep. We laiew that we should
be wakened and kept awake by the
waits singing in the cold; and we were
glad to be kept awake so. On the su-
preme day we came downstairs hiding
delicious yawns, and cordially pretend-
ing that we had never been more fit.
The day was different from other days ;
it had a unique romantic quality, tonic,
curative of all ills. On that day even
the tooth-ache vanished, retiring far in-
to the wilderness with the spiteful
word, the venomous thought, and the
unlovely gesture. We sang with gusto
"Christians awake, salute the happy
morn." We did salute the happy morn.
And when all the parcels were defi-
nitely unpacked, and the secrets of all
hearts disclosed, we spent the rest of
the happy morn in waiting, candidly
[21
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
greedy, for the first of the great meals.
And then we ate, and we drank, and
we ate again ; with no thought of nutri-
tion, nor of reasonableness, nor of the
morrow, nor of dyspepsia. We ate and
drank without fear and without shame,
in the sheer, abandoned ecstasy of cele-
bration. And by means of motley
paper headgear, fit only for a carnival,
we disguised ourselves in the most ab-
surd fashions, and yet did not make
ourselves seriously ridiculous; for ridi-
cule is in the vision, not in what is seen.
And we danced and sang and larked,
until we could no more. And finally
we chanted a song of ceremony, and
separated; ending the day as we had
commenced it, with salvoes of good
wishes. And the next morning we
were indisposed and enfeebled; and we
did not care; we suffered gladly; we
[3]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
had our pain's worth, and more. This
was the past.
* * * Hf
Even today the spirit and rites of
ancient Christmas are kept up, more
or less in their full rigour and splen-
dour, by a race of beings that is scat-
tered over the whole earth. This race,
mysterious, masterful, conservative,
imaginative, passionately sincere, ar-
riving from we know not where, dis-
solving before our eyes we know not
how, has its way in spite of us. I mean
the children. By virtue of the chil-
dren's faith, the reindeer are still
tramping the sky, and Christmas Day
is still something above and beyond a
day of the week; it is a day out of the
week. We have to sit and pretend;
and with disillusion in our souls we do
pretend. At Christmas, it is not the
[4]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
children who make-believe; it is our-
selves. Who does not remember the
first inkling of a suspicion that Christ-
mas Day was after all a day rather
like any other day? In the house of
my memories, it was the immemorial
duty of my brother on Christmas
morning, before anything else what-
ever happened, to sit down to the organ
and perform "Christians Awake" with
all possible stops drawn. He had to do
it. Tradition, and the will that ema-
nated from the best bedroom, combined
to force him to do it. One Christmas
morning, as he was preparing the stops,
he glanced aside at me with a supercili-
ous curl of the lips, and the curl of my
lips silently answered. It was as if
he had said: "I condescend to this," and
as if I had said: "So do I."
Such a moment comes to mosj of us
[5]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
of this generation. And thencefor-
ward the change in us is extraordinarily-
rapid. The next thing we know is that
the institution of waits is a rather an-
noying survival which at once deprives
us of sleep and takes money out of our
pockets. And then Christmas is glut-
tony and indigestion and expensive-
ness and quarter-day, and Christmas
cards are a tax and a nuisance, and
present-giving is a heavier tax and a
nuisance. And we feel self-conscious
and foolish as we sing "Auld Lang
Syne." And what a blessing it will
be when the "festivities" (as they are
misleadingly called) are over, and we
can settle down into commonsense
again !
4c ♦ 4: *
I do not mean that our hearts are
black with despair on Christmas Day.
[6]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
I do not mean that we do not enjoy
ourselves on Christmas Day. There
is no doubt that, with the inspiriting
help of the mysterious race, and by the
force of tradition, and by our own gift
of pretending, we do still very much
enjoy ourselves on Christmas Day.
What I mean to insinuate, and to as-
sert, is that beneath this enjoyment is
the disconcerting and distressing con-
viction of unreality, of non-significance,
of exaggerated and even false senti-
ment. What I mean is that we have to
brace and force ourselves up to the en-
joyment of Christmas. We have to
induce deliberately the "Christmas feel-
ing." We have to remind ourselves
that "it will never do" to let the hearti-
ness of Christmas be impaired. The
peculiarity of our attitude towards
Christmas, which at worst is a vaca-
[7]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
tion, may be clearly seen by contrasting
it with our attitude towards another
vacation — the summer holiday. We do
not have to brace and force ourselves
up to the enjoyment of the summer
holiday. We experience no difficulty
in inducing the holiday feeling. There
is no fear of the institution of the sum-
mer holiday losing its heartiness. Nor
do we need the example of children to
aid us in savouring the August "festivi-
ties."
« 4: * 3K
If any person here breaks in with
the statement that I am deceived and
the truth is not in me, and that Christ-
mas stands just where it did in the
esteem of all right-minded people, and
that he who casts a doubt on the hearti-
ness of Christmas is not right-minded,
let that person read no more. This
[8]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
book is not written for him. And if
any other person, kindlier, condescend-
ingly protests that there is nothing
wrong with Christmas except my ad-
vancing age, let that person read no
more. This book is not written for
him, either. It is written for persons
who can look facts cheerfully in the
face. That Christmas has lost some of
its magic is a fact that the common
sense of the western hemisphere will
not dispute. To blink the fact is in-
fantile. To confront it, to try to under-
stand it, to reckon with it, and to
obviate any evil that may attach to it —
this course alone is meet for an hon-
est man.
[9]
CHAPTER
TWO
THE REASON
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
TWO
THE REASON
rthe decadence of Christmas were
a purely subjective phenomenon,
confined to the breasts of those of
us who have ceased to be children
then it follows that Christmas has
always been decadent, because peo-
ple have always been ceasing to
be children. It follows also that the
festival was originally got up by dis-
illusioned adults, for the benefit of the
children. Which is totally absurd.
Adults have never yet invented any in-
stitution, festival or diversion specially
for the benefit of children. The egoism
of adults makes such an effort impos-
[18]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
sible, and the ingenuity and pliancy of
children make it unnecessary. The
pantomime, for example, which is now
pre-eminently a diversion for children,
was created by adults for the amusement
of adults. Children have merely ac-
cepted it and appropriated it. Chil-'
dren, being helpless, are of course fatal-
ists and imitators. They take what
comes, and they do the best they can
with it. And when they have made
something their own that was adult,
they stick to it like leeches.
They are terrific Tories, are children ;
they are even reactionary! They
powerfully object to changes. What
they most admire in a pantomime is
the oldest part of it, the only true pan-
tomime— the harlequinade! Hence the
very nature of children is a proof that
what Christmas is now to them, it was
[14]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
in the past to their elders. If they now
feel and exhibit faith and enthusiasm
in the practice of the festival, be sure
that, at one time, adults felt and ex-
hibited the same faith and enthusiasm
— yea, and more! For in neither faith
nor enthusiasm can a child compete
with a convinced adult. No child could
believe in anything as passionately as
the modern millionaire believes in
money, or as the modern social re-
former believes in the virtue of Acts
of Parliament.
Another and a crowning proof that
Christmas has been diminished in our
hearts lies in the fiery lyrical splendour
of the old Christmas hymns. Those
hymns were not written by people who
made-believe at Christmas for the
pleasure of youngsters. They were
[15]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
written by devotees. And this age
could not have produced them.
* * * *
No I The decay of the old Christmas
spirit among adults is undeniable, and
its cause is fairly plain. It is due to the
labours of a set of idealists — men who
cared not for money, nor for glory, nor
for anything except their ideal. Their
ideal was to find out the truth concern-
ing nature and concerning human his-
tory; and they sacrificed all — they sac-
rificed the peace of mind of whole gen-
erations— to the pleasure of slaking
their ardour for truth. For them the
most important thing in the world was
the satisfaction of their curiosity. They
would leave naught alone; and they
scorned consequences. Useless to cry
to them: "That is holy. Touch it not!"
I mean the great philosophers and men
[16]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
of science — especially the geologists —
of the nineteenth century. I mean
such utterly pure-minded men as Lyell,
Spencer, Darwin and Huxley. They
inaugurated the mighty age of doubt
and scepticism. They made it impos-
sible to believe all manner of things
which before them none had questioned.
The movement spread until uneasiness
was everywhere in the realm of thought,
and people walked about therein fear-
somely, as in a land subject to earth-
quakes. It was as if people had said:
"We don't know what will topple next.
Let's raze everything to the ground,
and then we shall feel safer." And
there came a moment after which no-
body could ever look at a picture of the
Nativity in the old way. Pictures of
the Nativity were admired perhaps as
much as ever, but for the exquisite
[17]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
beauty of their naivete, the charm of
their old-world simplicity, not as artis-
tic renderings of fact.
4: 4c * *
An age of scepticism has its faults,
like any other age, though certain per-
sons have pretended the contrary.
Having been compelled to abandon its
belief in various statements of alleged
fact, it lumps principles and ideals
with alleged facts, and hastily decides
not to believe in anything at all. It
gives up faith, it despises faith, in spite
of the warning of its greatest philos-
ophers, including Herbert Spencer,
that faith of some sort is necessary to a
satisfactory existence in a universe full
of problems which science admits it can
never solve. None were humbler than
the foremost scientists about the nar-
rowness of the field of knowledge, as
[18]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
compared with the immeasurability of
the field of faith. But the warning has
been ignored, as warnings nearly al-
ways are. Faith is at a discount. And
the qualities which go with faith are at
a discount; such as enthusiasm, spon-
taneity, ebullition, lyricism, and self-
expression in general. Sentimentality
is held in such horror that people are
afraid even of sentiment. Their secret
cry is: "Give us something in which
we can believe."
* * * *
They forget, in their confusion, that
the great principles, spiritual and
moral, remain absolutely intact. They
forget that, after all the shattering dis-
coveries of science and conclusions of
philosophy, mankind has still to live
with dignity amid hostile nature, and
in the presence of an unknowable
[19]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
power and that mankind can only suc-
ceed in this tremendous feat by the ex-
ercise of faith and of that mutual good-
will which is based in sincerity and
charity. They forget that, while facts
are nothing, these principles are every-
thing. And so, at that epoch of the
year which nature herself has ordained
for the formal recognition of the situa-
tion of mankind in the universe and of
its resulting duties to itself and to the
Unknown — at that epoch, they bewail,
sadly or impatiently or cynically: "Oh!
The bottom has been knocked out of
Christmas I"
4: !(( 4: 4e
But the bottom has not been knocked
out of Christmas. And people know it.
Somewhere, in the most central and
mysterious fastness of their hearts, they
know it. If they were not, in spite of
themselves, convinced of it, why
[20]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
should they be so pathetically anxious
to keep alive in themselves, and to
foster in their children, the Christmas
spirit? Obviously, a profound instinct
is for ever reminding them that, with-
out the Christmas spirit, they are lost.
The forms of faith change, but the
spirit of faith, which is the Christmas
spirit, is immortal amid its endless
vicissitudes. At a crisis of change, faith
is weakened for the majority; for the
majority it may seem to be dead. It is
conserved, however, in the hearts of the
few supremely great and in the hearts
of the simple. The supremely great
are hidden from the majority; but the
simple are seen of all men, and them
we encourage, often without knowing
why, to be the depositaries of that
which we cannot ourselves guard, but
which we dimly feel to be indispensable
to our safety.
[21]
CHAPTER
THREE
THE SOLSTICE
AND GOOD WILL
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
THREE
THE SOLSTICE AND GOOD WILL
IN order to see that there is under-
lying Christmas an idea of faith
which will at any rate last as long as
the planet lasts, it is only necessary to
ask and answer the question: "Why
was the Christmas feast fixed for the
twenty-fifth of December?" For it is
absolutely certain, and admitted by
everybody of knowledge, that Christ
was not born on the twenty-fifth of
December. Those disturbing impas-
sioned inquirers after truth, who will
not leave us peaceful in our ignorance,
have settled that for us, by pointing
out, among other things, that the
[25]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
twenty-fifth of December falls in the
very midst of the Palestine rainy sea-
son, and that, therefore, shepherds were
assuredly not on that date watching
their flocks by night.
* * * ♦
Christians were not, at first, united
in the celebration of Christmas. Some
kept Christmas in January, others in
April, others in May. It was a pre-
Christian force which drove them all
into agreement upon the twenty-fifth
of December. Just as they wisely took
the Christmas tree from the Roman
Saturnalia, so they took the date of
their festival from the universal pre-
Christian festival of the winter solstice.
Yule, when mankind celebrated the
triumph of the sun over the powers of
darkness, when the night begins to de-
grease and the day to increase, when
[26]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
the year turns, and hope is born again
because the worst is over. No more
suitably symbolic moment could have
been chosen for a festival of faith, good-
will and joy. And the appositeness of
the moment is just as perfect in this era
of electric light and central heating, as
it was in the era of Virgil, who, by the
way, described a Christmas tree. We
shall say this year, with exactly the
same accents of relief and hope as our
pagan ancestors used, and as the
woaded savage used: "The days will
begin to lengthen now!" For, while
we often falsely fancy that we have
subjugated nature to our service, the
fact is that we are as irremediably as
ever at the mercy of nature.
Indeed, the attitude of us moderns
towards the forces by which our exist-
[27]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
ence is governed ought to be, and prob-
ably is, more reverent and awe-struck
than that of the earlier world. The dis-
coveries of science have at once quick-
ened our imagination and compelled
us to admit that what we know is the
merest trifle. The pagan in his ignor-
ance explained everything. Our knowl-
edge has only deepened the mystery,
and all that we shall learn will but
deepen it further. We can explain the
solstice. We are aware with absolute
certitude that the solstice and the
equinox and the varying phenomena
of the seasons are due to the fact that
the plane of the equator is tilted at a
slight angle to the plane of the ecliptic.
When we put on the first overcoat in
autumn, and when we give orders to let
the furnace out in spring, we know
that we are arranging our lives in ac-
[28]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
cordance with that angle. And we are
quite duly proud of our knowledge.
And much good does our knowledge
do us!
* * * *
Well, it does do us some good, and
in a spiritual way, too! For nobody
can even toy with astronomy without
picturing to himself, more clearly and
startlingly than would be otherwise
possible, a revolving globe that whizzes
through elemental space around a ball
of fire: which, in turn, is rushing with
all its satellites at an inconceivable
speed from nowhere to nowhere; and
to the surface of the revolving, whiz-
zing globe a multitude of living things
desperately clinging, and these living
things, in the midst of cataclysmic dan-
ger, and between the twin enigmas of
birth and death, quarrelling and hating
and calling themselves kings and
[29]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
queens and millionaires and beautiful
women and aristocrats and geniuses
and lackeys and superior persons!
Perhaps the highest value of astron-
omy is that it renders more vivid the
ironical significance of such a vision,
and thus brings home to us the truth
that in spite of all the differences which
we have invented, mankind is a fellow-
ship of brothers, overshadowed by in-
soluble and fearful mysteries, and de-
pendent upon mutual goodwill and
trust for the happiness it may hope to
achieve. * * * Let us remember that
Christmas is, among other things, the
winter solstice, and that the bottom
has not yet been knocked out of the
winter solstice, nor is likely to be in the
immediate future!
It is a curious fact that the one faith
which really does flourish and wax in
[30]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
these days should be faith in the idea of
social justice. For social justice sim-
ply means the putting into practice of
goodwill and the recognition of the
brotherhood of mankind. Formerly,
people were enthusiastic and altruistic
for a theological idea, for a national
idea, for a political idea. You could
see men on the rack for the sake of a
dogma; you could see men of a great
nation fitting out regiments and ruin-
ing themselves and going forth to save
a small nation from destruction. You
could see men giving their lives to the
aggrandisement of an empire. And
the men who did these things had the
best brains and the quickest wits and
the warmest hearts of their time. But
today, whenever you meet a first-class
man who is both enthusiastic and al-
truistic, you may be sure that his pet
[31]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
scheme is neither theological, military
nor political; you may be sure that he
has got into his head the notion that
some class of persons somewhere are
not being treated fairly, are not being
treated with fraternal goodwill, and
that he is determined to put the matter
right, or perish.
* * * *
In England, nearly all the most in-
teresting people are social reformers:
and the only circles of society in which
you are not bored, in which there is real
conversation, are the circles of social
reform. These people alone have an
abounding and convincing faith. Their
faith has, for example, convinced many
of the best literary artists of the day,
with the result that a large proportion
of the best modern imaginative liter-
ature has been inspired by the dream of
[32]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
social justice. Take away that idea
from the works of H. G. Wells, John
Galsworthy and George Bernard
Shaw, and there would be exactly noth-
ing left. Despite any appearance to the
contrary, therefore, the idea of univer-
sal goodwill is really alive upon the
continents of this planet: more so, in-
deed, than any other idea — for the vi-
tality of an idea depends far less on
the numbers of people who hold it than
on the quality of the heart and brain of
the people who hold it. Whether the
growth of the idea is due to the spirit-
ual awe and humility which are the
consequence of increased scientific
knowledge, I cannot say, and I do not
seriously care.
133]
CHAPTER
FOUR
THE APPOSITENESS
OF CHRISTMAS
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
FOUR
THE APPOSITENESS OF CHRISTMAS
YES," you say, "I am quite at one
with you as to the immense
importance of goodwill in social exist-
ence, and I have the same faith in it as
you have. But why a festival? Why
eating and drinking and ceremonies?
Surely one can have faith without festi-
vals?"
* :(( * 9):
The answer is that one cannot; or at
least that in practice, one never does.
A disinclination for festivals, a morbid
self-conscious fear of letting oneself go,
is a sure sign of lack of faith. If you
have not enough enthusiasm for the
f37]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
cult of goodwill to make you positively
desire to celebrate the cult, then your
faith is insufficient and needs fostering
by study and meditation. Why, if you
decide to found a sailing-club up your
creek, your very first thought is to sig-
nalise your faith in the sailing of those
particular waters by a dinner and a
jollity, and you take care that the
event shall be an annual one! * * *
You have faith in your wife, and in
your affection for her. Surely you
don't need a festival to remind you of
that faith, you so superior to human
weaknesses? But you do! You insist
on having it. And, if the festival did
not happen, you would feel gloomy
and discouraged. A birthday is a de-
vice for recalling to you in a formal
and impressive manner that a certain
person still lives and is in need of good-
[38]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
will. It is a device which experience
has proved to be both valuable and
necessary.
* * * *
Real faith effervesces ; it shoots forth
in every direction; it communicates it-
self. And the inevitable result is a fes-
tival. The festival is anticipated with
pleasure, and it is remembered with
pleasure. And thus it reacts stimula-
tingly on that which gave it birth, as the
vitality of children reacts stimulatingly
on the vitality of parents. It provides
a concrete symbol of that which is in-
visible and intangible, and mankind is
not yet so advanced in the path of
spiritual perfection that we can afford
to dispense with concrete symbols.
Now, if we maintain festivals and
formalities for the healthy continuance
and honour of a pastime or of a per-
[39]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
sonal affection, shall we not maintain
a festival — and a mighty one — in be-
half of a faith which makes the corpor-
ate human existence bearable amid the
menaces and mysteries that for ever
threaten it, — the faith of universal
goodwill and mutual confidence?
* * * *
If then, there is to be a festival, why
should it not be the festival of Christ-
mas? It can, indeed, be no other.
Christmas is most plainly indicated. It
is dignified and made precious by tra-
ditions which go back much further
than the Christian era; and it has this
tremendous advantage — it exists! In
spite of our declining faith, it has been
preserved to us, and here it is, ready to
hand. Not merely does it fall at the
point which uncounted generations
have agreed to consider as the turn of
[40]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
the solar year and as the rebirth of
hope! It falls also immediately before
the end of the calendar year, and thus
prepares us for a fresh beginning that
shall put the old to shame. It could
not be better timed. Further, its tra-
ditional spirit of peace and goodwill is
the very spirit which we desire to fos-
ter. And finally its customs — or at
any rate, its main customs — are well
designed to symbolize that spirit. If
we have allowed the despatch of Christ-
mas cards to degenerate into naught
but a tedious shuffling of paste-boards
and overwork of post-office officials,
the fault is not in the custom but in
ourselves. The custom is a most strik-
ing one — so long as we have sufficient
imagination to remember vividly that
we are all in the same boat — I mean,
on the same planet — and clinging des-
[41]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
perately to the flying ball, and depend-
ent for daily happiness on one
another's good will! A Christmas card
sent by one human being to another
human being is more than a piece of
coloured stationery sent by one log of
wood to another log of wood: it is an
inspiring and reassuring message of
high value. The mischief is that so
many self-styled human beings are
just logs of wood, rather stylishly
dressed.
^ Dc * %
And then the custom of present-giv-
ing! What better and more convinc-
ing proof of sympathy than a gift?
The gift is one of these obvious con-
trivances— like the wheel or the lever —
which smooth and simplify earthly life,
and the charm of whose utility no ob-
viousness can stale. But of course any
142]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
contrivance can be rendered futile by
clumsiness or negligence. There is a
sort of Christmas giver who says pet-
tishly: "Oh! I don't know what to give
to So-and-So this Christmas! What a
bother! I shall write and tell her to
choose something herself, and send the
bill to me!" And he writes. And though
he does not suspect it, what he really
writes, and what So-and-So reads, is
this: "Dear So-and-So. It is nothing
to me that you and I are alive together
on this planet, and in various ways
mutually dependent. But I am bound
by custom to give you a present. I do
not, however, take sufficient interest in
your life to know what object it would
give you pleasure to possess ; and I do
not want to be put to the trouble of
finding out, nor of obtaining the object
and transmitting it to you. Will you,
[43]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
therefore, buy something for yourself
and send the bill to me. Of course, a
sense of social decency will prevent you
from spending more than a small sum,
and I shall be spared all exertion be-
yond signing a cheque. Yours insin-
cerely and loggishly * * *." So man-
aged, the contrivance of present-giving
becomes positively sinister in its work-
ing. But managed with the sympa-
thetic imagination which is infallibly
produced by real faith in goodwill, its
efficacy may approach the miraculous.
The Christmas ceremony of good-
wishing by word of mouth has never
been in any danger of falling into in-
sincerity. Such is the power of tradi-
tion and virtue of a festival, and such
the instinctive brotherliness of men,
that on this day the mere sight of an
[44]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
acquaintance will soften the voice and
warm the heart of the most superior
sceptic and curmudgeon that the age
of disillusion has produced. In spite
of himself, faith flickers up in him
again, be it only for a moment. And,
during that moment, he is almost like
those whose bright faith the age has
never tarnished, like the great and like
the simple, to whom it is quite un-
necessary to offer a defence and ex-
planation of Christmas or to suggest
the basis of a new faith therein.
[45]
CHAPTER
FIVE
DEFENCE OF FEASTING
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
FIVE
DEFENCE OF FEASTING
AND now I can hear the superior
1^ sceptic disdainfully questioning:
"Yes, but what about the orgy of
Christmas? What about all the eating
and drinking?" To which I can only
answer that faith causes effervescence,
expansion, joy, and that joy has al-
ways, for excellent reasons, been con-
nected with feasting. The very words
'feast' and 'festival' are etymologically
inseparable. The meal is the most
regular and the least dispensable of
daily events; it happens also to be an
event which is in itself almost invari-
ably a source of pleasure, or, at worst,
[49]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
of satisfaction: and it will continue to
have this precious quality so long as
our souls are encased in bodies. What
could be more natural, therefore, than
that it should be employed, with due
enlargement and ornamentation, as the
kernel of the festival? What more
logical than that the meal should be
elevated into a feast?
"But," exclaims the superior sceptic,
"this idea involves the idea of excess!"
What if it does? I would not deny it!
Assuredly, a feast means more than
enough, and more than enough means
excess. It is only because a feast
means excess that it assists in
the bringing about of expansion
and joy. Such is human nature, and
it is the case of human nature that
we are discussing. Of course, excess
usually exacts its toll, within twenty-
[50]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
four hours, especially from the weak.
But the benefit is worth its price. The
body pays no more than the debt which
the soul has incurred. An occasional
change of habit is essential to well-be-
ing, and every change of habit results
in temporary derangement and incon-
venience.
Do not misunderstand me. Do not
push my notion of excess to extremes.
When I defend the excess inevitably
incident to a feast, I am not seeking to
prove that a man in celebrating Christ-
mas is entitled to drink champagne in
a public restaurant until he becomes an
object of scorn and disgust to the wait-
ers who have travelled from Switzer-
land in order to receive his tips. Much
less should I be prepared to justify him
if, in his own home, he sank lower than
the hog. Nor would I sympathetically
[51]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
carry him to bed. There is such a
thing as excess in moderation and dig-
nity. Every wise man has practised
this. And he who has not practised it
is a fool, and deserves even a harder
name. He ought indeed to inhabit a
planet himself, for all his faith in hu-
manity will be exhausted in believing
in himself. * * * So much for the
feast !
>): 9it 3|c 4:
But the accompaniments of the feast
are also excessive. For example, you
make a tug-of-war with your neigh-
bour at table, and the rope is a fragile
packet of tinselled paper, which breaks
with a report like a pistol. You open
your half of the packet, and discover
some doggerel verse which you read
aloud, and also a perfectly idiotic col-
oured cap, which you put on your head
[53]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
to the end of looking foolish. And this
ceremony is continued until the whole
table is surrounded by preposterous
headgear, and doggerel verse is lying
by every plate. Surely no man in his
senses, no woman in hers, would, etc.,
etc. * * * ! But one of the spiritual
advantages of feasting is that it ex-
pands you beyond your common sense.
One excess induces another, and a finer
one. This acceptance of the ridiculous
is good for you. It is particularly good
for an Anglo-Saxon, who is so self-
contained and self-controlled that
his soul might stiffen as the un-
used limb of an Indian fakir stif-
fens, were it not for periodical excite-
ments like that of the Christmas feast.
Everybody has experienced the self-
conscious reluctance which precedes the
putting on of the cap, and the relief,
[53]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
followed by further expansion and
ecstasy, which ensues after the putting
on. Everybody who has put on a cap
is aware that it is a beneficial thing to
put on a cap. Quite apart from the
fact that the mysterious and fanciful
race of children are thereby placated
and appeased, the soul of the capped
one is purified by this charming excess.
9|c 3|c * 4:
And the Tree! What an excess of
the fantastic to pretend that all those
glittering balls, those coloured candles
and those variegated parcels are the
blossoms of the absurd tree ! How ex-
cessively grotesque to tie all those par-
cels to the branches, in order to take
them off again! Surely, something less
mediaeval, more ingenious, more mod-
ern than this could be devised — if sym-
bolism is to be indulged in at all ! Can
[54]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
you devise it, O sceptical one, revelling
in disillusion? Can you invent a sym-
bol more natural and graceful than the
symbol of the Tree? Perhaps you
would have a shop-counter, and shelves
behind it, so as to instil early into the
youthful mind that this is a planet of
commerce! Perhaps you would abolish
the doggerel of crackers, and substitute
therefor extracts from the Autobio-
graphy of Benjamin Franklin! Per-
haps you would exchange the caps for
blazonry embroidered with chemical
formula, your object being the ad-
vancement of science! Perhaps you
would do away with the orgiastic eat-
ing and drinking, and arrange for a
formal conversation about astronomy
and the idea of human fraternity, upon
strictly reasonable rations of shredded
wheat! You would thus create an
[55]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
original festival, and eliminate all fear
of a dyspeptic morrow. You would im-
prove the mind. And you would
avoid the ridiculous. But also, in
avoiding the ridiculous, you would
tumble into the ridiculous, deeply and
hopelessly! And think how your very
original festival would delight the par-
ticipators, how they would look for-
ward to it with joy, and back upon it
with pleasurable regret; how their
minds would dwell sweetly upon the
conception of shredded wheat, and how
their faith would be encouraged and
strengthened by the intellectuality of
the formal conversation!
* * * *
He who girds at an ancient estab-
lished festival should reflect upon sun-
dry obvious truths before he withers
up the said festival by the sirocco of his
[56]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
contempt. These truths are as fol-
lows:— First, a festival, though based
upon intelligence, is not an affair of the
intellect, but an affair of the emotions.
Second, the human soul can only be
reached through the human body.
Third, it is impossible to replace an an-
cient festival by a new one. Robe-
spierre, amongst others, tried to do so,
and achieved the absurd. Reformers,
heralds of new faiths, and rejuvenat-
ors of old faiths, have always, when
they succeeded, adopted an ancient fes-
tival, with all or most of its forms, and
been content to breathe into it a new
spirit to replace the old spirit which
had vanished or was vanishing. Any-
body who, persuaded that Christmas is
not what it was, feels that a festival
must nevertheless be preserved, will do
well to follow this example. To be
[57]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
content with the old forms and to vital-
ize them: that is the problem. Solve
it, and the forms will soon begin to
adapt themselves to the process of vital-
ization. All history is a witness in
proof.
[58
CHAPTER
SIX
TO REVITALIZE
THE FESTIVAL
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
SIX
TO REVITALIZE THE FESTIVAL
IT being agreed, then, that the
Christmas festival has lost a great
deal of its old vitality, and that, to many
people, it is a source of tedium and the
cause of insincerity; and it being
further agreed that the difficulty can-
not be got over by simply abolishing
the festival, as no one really wants it to
be abolished; the question remains —
what should be done to vitalize it? The
former spirit of faith, the spirit which
made the great Christmas of the golden
days, has been weakened; but one ele-
ment of it — that which is founded on
the conviction that goodwill among
[61]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
men is a prime necessity of reasonable
living — survives with a certain vigom*,
though even it has not escaped the gen-
eral scepticism of the age. This ele-
ment unites in agreement all the pug-
nacious sectaries who join battle over
the other elements of the former faith.
This element has no enemies. None
will deny its lasting virtue. Obviously,
therefore, the right course is to concen-
trate on the cultivation of goodwill.
If goodwill can be consciously in-
creased, the festival of Christmas will
cease to be perfunctory. It will ac-
quire a fresh and more genuine signifi-
cance, which, however, will not in any
way inconvenience those who have
never let go of the older significance.
No tradition will be overthrown, no
shock administered, and nobody will be
able to croak about iconoclasm and
[63]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
new-fangled notions and the sudden
end of the world, and so on.
The fancy of some people will at
once run to the formation of a grand
international Society for the revivify-
ing of Christmas by the cultivation of
goodwill, with branches in all the chief
cities of Europe and America, and
headquarters — of course at the Hague ;
and committees and subcommittees,
and presidents and vice-presidents;
and honorary secretaries and secretar-
ies paid; and quarterly and annual
meetings, and triennial congresses!
And a literary organ or two! And a
badge — naturally a badge, designed by
a famous artist in harmonious tints!
SfS «(£ >fC af*
But my fancy does not run at all in
this direction. I am convinced that we
[63]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
have already far too many societies for
the furtherance of our ends. To my
mind, most societies with a moral aim
are merely clumsy machines for doing
simple jobs with the maximum of fric-
tion, expense and inefficiency. I should
define the majority of these societies as
a group of persons each of whom ex-
pects the others to do something very
wonderful. Why create a society in
order to help you to perform some act
which nobody can perform but your-
self? No society can cultivate goodwill
in you. You might as well create a so-
ciety for shaving or for saying your
prayers. And further, goodwill is far
less a process of performing acts than
a process of thinking thoughts. To
think, is it necessary to involve your-
self in the cog-wheels of a society?
Moreover, a society means fuss and
[64]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
shouting: two species of disturbance
which are both futile and deleterious —
particularly in an intimate affair of
morals.
You can best help the general culti-
vation of goodwill along by cultivating
goodwill in your own heart. Until you
have started the task of personal culti-
vation, you will probably assume that
there will be time left over for super-
intending the cultivation of goodwill in
other people's hearts. But a very little
experience ought to show you that this
is a delusion. You will perceive, if not
at once, later, that you have bitten off
just about as much as you can chew.
And you will appreciate also the wis-
dom of not advertising your enterprise.
Why, indeed, should you breathe a
word to a single soul concerning your
admirable intentions? Rest assured
[65]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
that any unusual sprouting of the de-
sired crop will be instantly noticed by
the persons interested.
* * * *
The next point is: Towards whom
are you to cultivate goodwill? Natur-
ally, one would answer: Towards the
whole of humanity. But the whole of
humanity, as far as you are concerned,
amounts to naught but a magnificent
abstract conception. And it is very
difficult to cultivate goodwill towards
a magnificent abstract conception. The
object of goodwill ought to be clearly
defined, and very visible to the physi-
cal eye, especially in the case of people,
such as us, who are only just beginning
to give to the cultivation of goodwill,
perhaps, as much attention as we give
to our clothes or our tobacco. If a nov-
ice sets out to embrace the whole of
[66]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
humanity in his goodwill, he will have
even less success than a young man en-
deavouring to fall in love with four sis-
ters at once; and his daily companions
— those who see him eat his bacon and
lace his boots and earn his living — will
most certainly have a rough time of it.
* * * No! It will be best for you to
centre your efforts on quite a small
group of persons, and let the rest of
humanity struggle on as well as it can,
with no more of your goodwill than it
has hitherto had.
In choosing the small group of peo-
ple, it will be unnecessary for you to go
to Timbuctoo, or into the next street or
into the next house. And, in this group
of people you will be wise, while neg-
lecting no member of the group, to
specialise on one member. Your wife,
if you have one, or your husband? Not
[67]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
necessarily. I was meaning simply that
one who most frequently annoys you.
He may be your husband, or she may
be your wife. These things happen.
He may be your butler. Or you may
be his butler. She may be your
daughter, or he may be your father, and
you a charming omniscient girl of sev-
enteen wiser than anybody else. Who-
ever he or she may be who oftenest in-
spires you with a feeling of irritated
superiority, aim at that person in par-
ticular.
The frequency of your early failures
with him or her will show you how pru-
dent you were not to make an attempt
on the whole of humanity at once. And
also you will see that you did well not
to publish your excellent intentions.
If nobody is aware of your striving, no-
body will be aware that you have failed
[68]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
in striving. Your successes will ap-
pear effortless, and — most important
of all — you will be free from the horrid
curse of self-consciousness. Herein is
one of the main advantages of not
wearing a badge. Lastly, you will
have the satisfaction of feeling that, if
everybody else is doing as you are, the
whole of humanity is being attended to
after all. And the comforting thought
is that very probably, almost certainly,
quite a considerable number of people
are in fact doing as you are; some of
them — make no doubt — are doing a
shade better. I now come to the actual
method of cultivating goodwill.
[69]
CHAPTER
SEVEN
THE GIFT
OF ONESELF
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
SEVEN
THE GIFT OF ONESELF
CHILDREN divide their adult ac-
quaintances into two categories —
those who sympathise with them in the
bizarre and trying adventure called life ;
and those who don't. The second cate-
gory is much the larger of the two. Very
many people belong to it who think
that they belong to the first. They may
deceive themselves, but they cannot de-
ceive a child. Although you may
easily practise upon the credulity of a
child in matters of fact, you cannot
cheat his moral and social judgment.
He will add you up, and he will add
anybody up, and he will estimate con-
[73]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
duct, upon principles of his own and in
a manner terribly impartial. Parents
have no sterner nor more discerning
critics than their own children.
And so you may be polite to a child,
and pretend to appreciate his point of
view; but, unless you really do put
yourself to the trouble of understand-
ing him, unless you throw yourself, by
the exercise of imagination, into his
world, you will not succeed in being his
friend. To be his friend means an ef-
fort on your part, it means that you
must divest yourself of your own men-
tal habit, and, for the time being, adopt
his. And no nice phrases, no gifts of
money, sweets or toys, can take the
place of this effort, and this sacrifice of
self. With five minutes of genuine
surrender to him, you can win more of
his esteem and gratitude than five hun-
[74]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
dred pounds would buy. His notion
of real goodwill is the imaginative
sharing of his feelings, a convinced
participation in his pains and pleasures.
He is well aware that, if you honestly
do this, you will be on his side.
* * * *
Now, adults, of course, are tremen-
dously clever and accomplished persons
and children are no match for them;
but still, with all their talents and om-
niscience and power, adults seem to
lack important pieces of knowledge
which children possess; they seem to
forget, and to fail to profit by, their
infantile experience. Else why should
adults in general be so extraordinarily
ignorant of the great truth that the se-
cret of goodwill lies in the sympathetic
exercise of the imagination? Since
goodwill is the secret of human happi-
[75]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
ness, it follows that the secret of good-
will must be one of the most precious
aids to sensible living; and yet adults,
though they once knew it, have gone
and forgotten it! Children may well
be excused for concluding that the
ways of the adult, in their capricious ir-
rationality, are past finding out.
To increase your goodwill for a fel-
low creature, it is necessary to imagine
that you are he: and nothing else is
necessary. This feat is not easy; but
it can be done. Some people have less
of the divine faculty of imagination
than others, but nobody is without it,
and, like all other faculties, it improves
with use, just as it deteriorates with neg-
lect. Imagination is a function of the
brain. In order to cultivate goodwill
for a person, you must think frequent-
ly about that person. You must in-
[76]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
form yourself about all his activities.
You must be able in your mind's eye to
follow him hour by hour throughout
the day, and you must ascertain if he
sleeps well at night — because this is not
a trifle. And you must reflect upon his
existence with the same partiality as
you reflect upon your own. (Why
not?) That is to say, you must lay the
fullest stress on his difficulties, disap-
pointments and unhappinesses, and you
must minimise his good fortune. You
must magnify his efforts after right-
eousness, and forget his failures. You
must ever remember that, after all, he
is not to blame for the faults of his
character, which faults, in his case as in
yours, are due partly to heredity and
partly to environment. And beyond
everything you must always give him
credit for good intentions. Do not you,
[77]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
though sometimes mistakenly, always
act for the best? You know you do!
And are you alone among mortals in
rectitude?
* :¥ * *
This mental exercise in relation to
another person takes time, and it in-
volves a fatiguing effort. I repeat that
it is not easy. Nor is it invariably
agreeable. You may, indeed, find it
tedious, for example, to picture in vivid
detail all the worries that have brought
about your wife's exacerbation — negli-
gent maid, dishonest tradesman, milk
in a thunder storm, hypercritical hus-
band, dirt in the wrong place — but,
when you have faithfully done so, I
absolutely defy you to speak to her in
the same tone as you used to employ,
and to cherish resentment against her
as you used to do. And I absolutely
[78]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
defy you not to feel less discontented
with yourself than in the past. It is
impossible that the exercise of imagina-
tion about a person should not result
in goodwill towards that person. The
exercise may put a strain upon you;
but its effect is a scientific certainty. It
is the supreme social exercise, for it is
the giving of oneself in the most inti-
mate and complete sense. It is the sus-
pension of one's individuality in favour
of another. It establishes a new atti-
tude of mind, which, though it may
well lead to specific social acts, is more
valuable than any specific act, for it is
ceaselessly translating itself into de-
meanour.
* * * *
The critic with that terrible English
trait, an exaggerated sense of the ridi-
culous, will at this point probably re-
[79]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
mark to himself, smiling: "I suppose
the time will come, when by dint of reg-
ular daily practice, I shall have
achieved perfect goodwill towards the
first object of my attentions. I can
then regard that person as 'done.' I
can put him on a shelf, and turn to the
next; and, in the end, all my relations,
friends and acquaintances will be 'done'
and I can stare at them in a row on the
shelf of my mind, with pride and satis-
faction * * * ." Except that no per-
son will ever be quite "done," human
nature, still being human, in spite of
the recent advances of civilisation, I do
not deprecate this manner of stating
the case.
The ambitious and resolute man,
with an exaggerated sense of the ridi-
culous, would see nothing ridiculous in
ticking off a number of different ob-
[80]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
jects as they were successively achieved.
If for example it was part of his scheme
to learn various foreign languages, he
would know that he could only succeed
by regular application of the brain, by
concentration of thought daily; he
would also know that he could never
acquire any foreign language in abso-
lute perfection. Still, he would reach a
certain stage in a language, and then he
would put it aside and turn to the next
one on his programme, and so on. As-
suredly, he would not be ashamed of
employing method to reach his end.
Now all that can be said of the ac-
quirement of foreign languages can be
said of the acquirement of goodwill.
In remedying the deficiences of the
heart and character, as in remedying
the deficiences of mere knowledge, the
brain is the sole possible instrument,
[81]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
and the best results will be obtained by
using it regularly and scientifically, ac-
cording to an arranged method. Why,
therefore, if a man be proud of method
in improving his knowledge, should he
see something ridiculous in a deliberate
plan for improving his heart — the af-
fair of his heart being immensely more
important, more urgent and more diffi-
cult? The reader who has found even
one good answer to the above question,
need read no more of this book, for he
will have confounded me and it.
[82]
CHAPTER
EIGHT
THE FEAST
OF ST. FRIEND
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
EIGHT
THE FEAST OF ST. FRIEND
THE consequences of the social self-
discipline which I have outlined
will be various. A fairly early result will
be the gradual decline, and ultimately
the death, of the superior person in one-
self. It is true that the superior person
in oneself has nine lives, and is capable
of rising from the dead after even the
most fatal blows. But, at worst, the
superior person — (and who among us
does not shelter that sinister inhabitant
in his soul?) — will have a very poor
time in the soul of him who steadily
practises the imaginative understand-
ing of other people. In the first place,
[85]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
the mere exercise of the imagination on
others absolutely scotches egotism as
long as it lasts, and leaves it weakened
afterwards. And, in the second and
more important place, an improved
comprehension of others (which means
an intensified sympathy with them)
must destroy the illusion, so wide-
spread, that one's own case is unique.
The amicable study of one's neigh-
bours on the planet inevitably shows
that the same troubles, the same forti-
tudes, the same feats of intelligence,
the same successes and failures, are
constantly happening everywhere. One
can, indeed, see oneself in nearly every-
body else, and, in particular, one is
struck by the fact that the quality in
which one took most pride is simply
spread abroad throughout humanity in
heaps! It is only in sympathetically
contemplating others that one can get
[86]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
oneself in a true perspective. Yet
probably the majority of human beings
never do contemplate others, save with
the abstracted gaze which proves that
the gazer sees nothing but his own
dream.
:): :): * 4:
Another result of the discipline is an
immensely increased interest in one's
friends. One regards them even with
a sort of proprietary interest, for, by
imagination, one has come into sym-
pathetic possession of them. Further,
one has for them that tender feeling
which always follows the conferring of
a benefit, especially the secret confer-
ring of a benefit. It is the benefactor,
not the person benefited, who is grate-
ful. The benefit which one has con-
ferred is, of course, the gift of oneself.
The resulting emotion is independent
of any sympathy rendered by the other ;
[87
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
and where the sympathy is felt to be
mutual, friendship acquires a new sig-
nificance. The exercise of sympathetic
imagination will cause one to look upon
even a relative as a friend — a startling
achievement! It will provide a new
excitement and diversion in life.
When the month of December
dawns, there need be no sensation of
weary apprehension about the diffi-
culty of choosing a present that will
suit a friend. Certainly it will not be
necessary, from sheer indifference and
ignorance, to invite the friend to choose
his own present. On the contrary, one
will be, in secret, so intimate with the
friend's situation and wants and de-
sires, that sundry rival schemes for
pleasuring him will at once offer them-
selves. And when he receives the pres-
ent finally selected, he will have the
conviction, always delightfidly flatter-
[88]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
ing to a donee, that he has been the ob-
ject of a particular attention and in-
sight. * * * And when the cards of
greeting are despatched, formal
phrases will go forth charged, in the
consciousness of the sender, with a gen-
uine meaning, with the force of a cli-
max, as though the sender had written
thereon, in invisible ink: "I have had
you well in mind during the last twelve
months; I think I understand your
difficulties and appreciate your efforts
better than I did, and so it is with a
peculiar sympathetic knowledge that I
wish you good luck. I have guessed
what particular kind of good luck you
require, and I wish accordingly. My
wish is not vague and perfunctory
only."
1* n* 1* •I*
And on the day of festival itself one
feels that one really has something to
[89]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
celebrate. The occasion has a basis, if
it had no basis for one before; and if a
basis previously existed, then it is wid-
ened and strengthened. The festival
becomes a public culmination to a pri-
vate enterprise. One is not reminded
by Christmas of goodwill, because the
enterprise of imaginative sympathy has
been a daily affair throughout the year ;
but Christmas provides an excuse for
taking satisfaction in the success of the
enterprise and new enthusiasm to cor-
rect its failures. The symbolism of the
situation of Christmas, at the turn of
the year, develops an added impressive-
ness, and all the Christmas customs, apt
to produce annoyance in the breasts of
the unsentimental, are accepted with in-
dulgence, even with eagerness, because
their symbolism also is shown in a
clearer light. Christmas becomes as
190]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
personal as a birthday. One eats and
drinks to excess, not because it is the
custom to eat and drink to excess, but
from sheer effervescent faith in an idea.
And as one sits with one's friends, pos-
sessing them in the privacy of one's
heart, permeated by a sense of the value
of sympathetic comprehension in this
formidable adventure of existence on a
planet that rushes eternally through
the night of space ; assured indeed that
companionship and mutual understand-
ing alone make the adventure agree-
able,— one sees in a flash that Christ-
mas, whatever else it may be, is and
must be the Feast of St. Friend, and
a day on that account supreme among
the days of the year.
The third and greatest consequence
of the systematic cultivation of good-
[91]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
will now grows blindingly apparent.
To state it earlier in all its crudity
would have been ill-advised ; and I pur-
posely refrained from doing so. It is
the augmentation of one's own happi-
ness. The increase of amity, the dim-
inution of resentment and annoyance,
the regular maintenance of an attitude
mildly benevolent towards mankind, — •
these things are the surest way to hap-
piness. And it is because they are the
surest way to happiness, that the most
enlightened go after them. All real
motives are selfish motives; were it
otherwise humanity would be utterly
different from what it is. A man may
perform some act which will benefit
another while working some striking
injury to himself. But his reason for
doing it is that he prefers the evil of
the injury to the deeper evil of the
[92]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
fundamental dissatisfaction which
would torment him if he did not per-
form the act. Nobody yet sought the
good of another save as a means to his
own good. And it is in accordance
with common sense that this should be
so. There is, however, a lower egotism
and a higher. It is the latter which we
call unselfishness. And it is the latter of
which Christmas is the celebration. We
shall legitimately bear in mind, there-
fore, that Christmas, in addition to be-
ing the Feast of St. Friend, is even
more profoundly the feast of one's own
welfare.
[93]
CHAPTER
NINE
THE REACTION
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
NINE
THE REACTION
A REACTION sets in between
Christmas and the New Year. It
is inevitable; and I should be writing
basely if I did not devote to it a full
chapter. In those few dark days of in-
activity, between a fete and the resump-
tion of the implacable daily round, when
the weather is usually cynical, and we
are paying in our tissues the fair price
of excess, we see life and the world in a
grey and sinister light, which we imag-
ine to be the only true light. Take the
case of the average successful man of
thirty-five. What is he thinking as he
lounges about on the day after Christ-
mas?
[97]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
His thoughts probably run thus:
"Even if I live to a good old age, which
is improbable, as many years lie behind
me as before me. I have lived half my
life, and perhaps more than half my
life. I have realised part of my world-
ly ambition. I have made many good
resolutions, and kept one or two of
them in a more or less imperfect man-
ner. I cannot, as a commonsense per-
son, hope to keep a larger proportion
of good resolutions in the future than I
have kept in the past. I have tried to
understand and sympathise with my
fellow creatures, and though I have not
entirely failed to do so, I have nearly
failed. I am not happy and I am not
content. And if, after all these years,
I am neither happy nor content, what
chance is there of my being happy and
[98]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
content in the second half of my life?
The realisation of part of my worldly
ambition has not made me any happier,
and, therefore, it is unlikely that the
realisation of the whole of my ambition
will make me any happier. My
strength cannot improve; it can only
weaken; and my health likewise. I in
my turn am coming to believe — what
as a youth I rejected with disdain —
namely, that happiness is what one is
not, and content is what one has not.
Why, then, should I go on striving
after the impossible? Why should I
not let things slide?"
Thus reflects the average successful
man, and there is not one of us, success-
ful or unsuccessful, ambitious or unam-
bitious, whose reflections have not oft-
en led him to a conclusion equally dis-
[99]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
satisfied. Why should I or anybody
pretend that this is not so?
* * * H:
And yet, in the very moment of his
discouragement and of his blackest
vision of things, that man knows quite
well that he will go on striving. He
knows that his instinct to strive will be
stronger than his genuine conviction
that the desired end cannot be achieved.
Positive though he may be that a world-
ly ambition realised will produce the
same dissatisfaction as Dead Sea fruit
in the mouth, he will still continue to
struggle. * * * Now you cannot argue
against facts, and this is a fact. It
must be accepted. Conduct must be
adjusted to it. The struggle being in-
evitable, it must be carried through as
well as it can be carried through. It
will not end brilliantly, but precautions
[100]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
can be taken against it ending disgrace-
fully. These precautions consist in the
devising of a plan of campaign, and
the plan of campaign is defined by a
series of resolutions: which resolutions
are generally made at or immediately
before the beginning of a New Year.
Without these the struggle would be
formless, confused, blind and even
more futile than it is with them. Or-
ganised effort is bound to be less inef-
fective than unorganised effort.
* * * *
A worldly ambition can be, frequent-
ly is, realised: but an ideal cannot be
attained — if it could, it would not be
an ideal. The virtue of an ideal is its
unattainability. It seems, when it is
first formed, just as attainable as a
worldly ambition which indeed is often
schemed as a means to it. After twen-
[101]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
ty-foiir hours, the ideal is all but at-
tained. After forty-eight, it is a little
farther off. After a week, it has re-
ceded still further. After a month it is
far away; and towards the end of a
year even the keen eye of hope has al-
most lost sight of it; it is definitely
withdrawn from the practical sphere.
And then, such is the divine obstinacy
of humanity, the turn of the year gives
us an excuse for starting afresh, and
forming a new ideal, and forgetting
our shame in yet another organised ef-
fort. Such is the annual circle of the
ideal, the effort, the failure and the
shame. A rather pitiful history it may
appear! And yet it is also rather a
splendid history! For the failure and
the shame are due to the splendour of
our ideal and to the audacity of our
faith in ourselves. It is only in com-
[102]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
parison with our ideal that we have
fallen low. We are higher, in our fail-
ure and our shame, than we should
have been if we had not attempted to
rise.
* * * *
There are those who will say: "At
any rate, we might moderate somewhat
the splendour of our ideal and the au-
dacity of our self-conceit, so that there
should be a less grotesque disparity be-
tween the aim and the achievement.
Surely such moderation would be more
in accord with common sense! Surely
it would lessen the spiritual fatigue and
disappointment caused by sterile en-
deavour!" It would. But just try to
moderate the ideal and the self-conceit!
And you will find, in spite of all your
sad experiences, that you cannot. If
there is the stuff of a man in you, you
[103]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
simply cannot! The truth is that, in
the supreme things, a man does not act
under the rules of earthly common
sense. He transcends them, because
there is a quality in him which compels
him to do so. Common sense may per-
suade him to attempt to keep down the
ideal, and self-conceit may pretend to
agree. But all the time, self-conceit
will be whispering: "I can go one bet-
ter than that." And lo! the ideal is
furtively raised again.
A man really has little scientific con-
trol over the height of his ideal and the
intensity of his belief in himself. He
is born with them, as he is born with a
certain pulse and a certain reflex ac-
tion. He can neglect the ideal, so that
it almost dissolves, but he cannot
change its height. He can maim his
belief in himself by persistent abandon-
[104]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
merit to folly, but he cannot lower its
flame by an effort of the will, as he
might lower the flame of a gas by a
calculated turn of the hand. In the
secret and inmost constitution of hu-
manity it is ordained that the disparity
between the aim and the achievement
shall seem grotesque ; it is ordained that
there shall be an enormous fuss about
pretty nearly nothing; it is ordained
that the mountain shall bring forth a
mouse. But it is also ordained that men
shall go blithely on just the same, ignor-
ing in practice the ridiculousness which
they admit in theory, and drawing re-
newed hope and conceit from some
magic, exhaustless source. And this is
the whole philosophy of the New Year's
resolution.
[106]
CHAPTER
TEN
ON THE LAST DAY
OF THE YEAR
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
TEN
ON THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR
THERE are few people who arrive
at a true understanding of life,
even in the calm and disillusioned hours
of reflection that come between the end
of one annual period and the beginning
of another. Nearly everybody has an
idea at the back of his head that if only
he could conquer certain difficulties and
embarrassments, he might really start
to live properly, in the full sense of
living. And if he has pluck he says to
himself: "I will smooth things out,
and then I'll really live." In the same
way, nearly everybody, regarding the
spectacle of the world, sees therein a
[109]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
principle which he calls Evil; and he
thinks: "If only we could get rid of
this Evil, if only we could set things
right, how splendid the world would
be!" Now, in the meaning usually at-
tached to it, there is no such positive
principle as Evil. Assuming that there
is such a positive principle in a given
phenomenon — such as the character of
a particular man — you must then ad-
mit that there is the same positive prin-
ciple everywhere, for just as the char-
acter of no man is so imperfect that
you could not conceive a worse, so the
character of no man is so perfect that
you could not conceive a better. Do
away with Evil from the world, and you
would not merely abolish certain spe-
cially distressing matters, you would
change everything. You would in fact
achieve perfection. And when we say
[110]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
that one thing is evil and another good,
all that we mean is that one thing is less
advanced than another in the way of
perfection. Evil cannot therefore be a
positive principle; it signifies only the
falling short of perfection.
And supposing that the desires of
mankind were suddenly fulfilled, and
the world was rendered perfect! There
would be no motive for effort, no alter-
cation of conflicting motives in the hu-
man heart ; nothing to do, no one to be-
friend, no anxiety, no want unsatisfied.
Equilibrium would be established. A
cheerful world! You can see instantly
how amusing it would be. It would
have only one drawback — that of being
dead. Its reason for being alive would
have ceased to operate. Life means
change through constant development.
But you cannot develop the perfect.
The perfect can merely expire.
[Ill]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
That average successful man whom I
have previously cited feels all this by
instinct, though he does not compre-
hend it by reason. He reaches his am-
bition, and retires from the fight in or-
der to enjoy life, — and what does he
then do? He immediately creates for
himself a new series of difficulties and
embarrassments, either by undertaking
the management of a large estate, or by
some other device. If he does not main-
tain for himself conditions which neces-
sitate some kind of struggle, he quick-
ly dies — spiritually or physically, often
both. The proportion of men who, hav-
ing established an equilibrium, proceed
to die on the spot, is enormous. Con-
tinual effort, which means, of course,
continual disappointment, is the sine
qua non — without it there is literally
nothing vital. Its abolition is the abol-
[112]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
ition of life. Hence, people, who, fail-
ing to savour the struggle itself, antici-
pate the end of the struggle as the be-
ginning of joy and happiness — these
people are simply missing life ; they are
longing to exchange life for death. The
hemlock would save them a lot of
weary waiting.
4: * Hi *
We shall now perceive, I think, what
is wrong with the assumptions of the
average successful man as set forth in
the previous chapter. In postulating
that happiness is what one is not, he has
got hold of a mischievous conception of
happiness. Let him examine his con-
ception of happiness, and he will find
that it consists in the enjoyment of
love and luxury, and in the freedom
from enforced effort. He generally
wants all three ingredients. Now pas-
[113]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
sionate love does not mean happiness;
it means excitement, apprehension and
continually renewed desire. And af-
fectionate love, from which the passion
has faded, means something less than
happiness, for, mingled with its gentle
tranquility is a disturbing regret for
the more fiery past. Luxury, accord-
ing to the universal experience of those
who have had it, has no connection
whatever with happiness. And as for
freedom from enforced effort, it means
simply death.
Happiness as it is dreamed of cannot
possibly exist save for brief periods of
self-deception which are followed by
terrible periods of reaction. Real,
practicable happiness is due primarily
not to any kind of environment, but to
an inward state of mind. Real happi-
ness consists first in acceptance of the
[114]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
fact that discontent is a condition of
life, and, second, in an honest endeav-
our to adjust conduct to an ideal. Real
happiness is not an affair of the future ;
it is an affair of the present. Such as
it is, if it cannot be obtained now, it can
never be obtained. Real happiness
lives in patience, having comprehended
that if very little is accomplished to-
wards perfection, so a man's existence
is a very little moment in the vast ex-
panse of the universal life, and having
also comprehended that it is the strug-
gle which is vital, and that the end of
the struggle is only another name for
death.
* * * *
"Well," I hear you exclaiming, "if
this is all we can look forward to, if this
is all that real, practicable happiness
amounts to, is life worth living?" That
[ 115 ]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
is a question which each person has to
answer for himself. If he answers it in
the negative, no argument, no persua-
sion, no sentimentalisation of the facts
of life, will make him alter his opinion.
Most people, however, answer it in the
affirmative. Despite all the drawbacks,
despite all the endless disappointments,
they decide that life is worth living.
There are two species of phenomena
which bring them to this view. The
first may be called the golden moments
of life, which seem somehow in their
transient brevity to atone for the dull
exasperation of interminable mediocre
hours: moments of triumph in the
struggle, moments of fierce exultant re-
solve; moments of joy in nature — mo-
ments which defy oblivion in the mem-
ory, and which, being priceless, cannot
be too dearly bought.
[IIG]
THE FEAST OF ST FRIEND
The second species of compensatory
phenomena are all the agreeable ex-
periences connected with human friend-
ship ; the general feeling, under diverse
forms, that one is not alone in the
world. It is for the multiplication and
intensification of these phenomena that
Christmas, the Feast of St. Friend, ex-
ists. And, on the last day of the year,
on the eve of a renewed effort, our
thoughts may profitably be centered
upon a plan of campaign whose execu-
tion shall result in a less imperfect in-
tercourse.
[117]
NOV 4 1911
One copy del. to Cat. Div.
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